THE PLOTTERS.

Merton and his seven companions were a disgruntled lot when they returned to Madison after forcing an interview with Motor Matt, having their propositions rejected and then watching him get away after unmasking the "commodore."

Merton drove the touring car straight for home, turned it over to the gardener—who was also something of a chauffeur—and then ushered his friends into his father's study, in the house.

The butler and the chef had been left to look after Merton's comfort. Merton immediately sent the butler to the ice box for several bottles of beer, and the lads proceeded to drown their disgust and disappointment in drink.

The idea that any human emotion can be blotted out with an intoxicating beverage is a fallacy. The mind can be drugged, for a time, but when it regains its normal state all its impressions are revived even more harrowingly than they were before.

As soon as the glasses had been emptied Merton produced several packages of cigarettes, and the air grew thick with the odor of burning "doctored" tobacco.

"What're we going to do with Motor Matt?" demanded Jimmie Hess. "Take it from me, you fellows, something has got to be done with him or the cup goes back to the Yaharas. He's a chap that does things, all right."

"And game as a hornet," struck in Andy Meigs. "Wish we could find out what he's doing to the Sprite."

"That's what's worryin' me," said Perry Jenkins. "If he can coax twenty miles an hour out of the Sprite he's got the cup nailed down."

"He don't know anything about the Dart," spoke up Rush Partington. "As long as he thinks he's only got the Wyandotte to beat, I guess we can hold him."

"Hold nothing!" growled Martin Rawlins. "You don't understand how much that chap knows. Where did he grab all that about Halloran? He gets to the bottom of things, he does, and it's a fool notion to try and pull the wool over his eyes by sending the Wyandotte over to Fourth Lake every day. If I——"

"Mr. Ollie," announced the butler, looking in at the door, "there's a little negro boy downstairs and he says he won't leave till he sees you."

"Kick him off the front steps, Peters," scowled Merton.

Peters would probably have carried out his orders had not the little negro quietly followed him up the stairs. As the butler turned away, the darky pushed past him and jumped into the study.

"Pickerel Pete!" went up a chorus of voices.

The colored boy was one of the town "characters," and was known by sight to everybody.

"Come here, you!" cried the exasperated Peters, pushing into the room and reaching for Pete's collar.

"Drag him out," ordered Merton. "I haven't got any time to bother with him."

"You all better bothah wif me," cried Pete, squirming in the butler's grip. "Ah kin tell yo' about dat Motor Matt, en Ah got some papahs dat yo'd lak tuh have——"

"Come along, now, and stop your howlin'," grunted the butler, making for the door.

A clamor arose from those in the room.

"Wait, Peters!"

"Hear what he's got to say about Motor Matt!"

"Maybe he can give us a pointer that will be useful. Let's talk with him, Ollie."

"Leave him here, Peters," said Merton.

The butler let go his hold on Pickerel Pete and went out of the study, shaking his head in disapproval of Mr. Ollie's orders.

"Now, then, you little rascal," went on Merton sternly, as soon as the door had closed behind the butler, "if you're trying to fool us you'll get a thrashing."

"En ef Ah ain't tryin' tuh fool yu," returned Pete, "is Ah gwine tuh git two dollahs?"

"You say," asked Merton cautiously, "that you've got a roll of papers?"

"Dat's whut Ah has, boss. Ah stole dem f'om de boathouse ovah by the p'int where Motor Matt is workin' on de Sprite."

"Why did you steal them?"

"Tuh git even wif Motor Matt, dat's why," snorted Pete, glaring. "He done hiahed me fo' two dollahs er day, en den he turned me down fo' er no-count yaller Chink. When er man gits tuh be 'leben yeahs old, lak me, he ain't goin' tuh stand fo' dat sort o' work, no, suh. Ah jess sneaked up on de boathouse en Ah swiped de papahs."

It was plain to Merton that Pickerel Pete believed he had a grievance against Motor Matt. This might make him valuable.

"Let's see the papers, Pete," said Merton. "If they're worth anything to me I'll pay you for them."

"Dar dey is, boss," and Pete triumphantly drew the roll from the breast of his ragged "hickory" shirt.

Merton grabbed the roll eagerly, slipped off the rubber band and began examining every sheet. While his friends breathlessly watched, Merton jammed the papers into his pocket, sprang to his feet and paced back and forth across the room.

"What is it, Ollie?"

"Found out anything important?"

"Do those papers really belong to Motor Matt?"

"Tell us about it, can't you?"

"Shut up a minute," growled Merton. "I'm framing up a plan."

For a little while longer Merton continued to pace the floor; then, at last, he halted in front of Pete.

"There's five dollars for you, Pete," said Merton, taking a banknote from his pocket and handing it to the boy.

"Oh, by golly!" sputtered the overwhelmed Pete, grabbing at the bill as a drowning man grabs at a straw. "Ah's rich, dat's whut Ah is. Say, boss, is all dis heah money fo' me? Ah ain't got no change."

"It's all yours, Pete," went on Merton; "what's more, if you'll come here and see me Sunday afternoon at four o'clock, I'll give you a chance to earn another five-dollar bill. Will you be here?"

"Will er duck swim, boss?" fluttered Pete, kissing the crumpled banknote and tucking it carefully away in a trousers pocket. "Sunday aftehnoon at fo' erclock. Ah'll be heah fo' suah, boss."

"Then get out."

Pickerel Pete effaced himself—one hand in his trousers pocket to make sure the banknote was still there, and that he was not dreaming.

"Now, then, Ollie," said Martin Rawlins, "tell us what your game is."

"Yes, confound it," grumbled Meigs. "We're all on tenterhooks."

"These papers, fellows," answered Merton, drawing the crumpled sheets from his pocket, "contain Motor Matt's plans for changing the Sprite. Looking over them hastily, I gather the idea that he's making the Sprite just fast enough to beat the Wyandotte."

A snicker went up from the others.

"We've got him fooled, all right," was the general comment.

"Don't be too sure you've got that Motor Matt fooled," counseled Rawlins. "Maybe he put that roll where the negro could get it, and expected he would get it. This king of the motor boys is deep—don't let that get past your guard for a minute. I've put all the money I could rake and scrape into the betting pool, and I don't want to lose it by any snap judgments."

That was the way with the rest of them. They had all clubbed their funds together and the result was a big purse for betting purposes.

"I guess it means as much to the rest of us as it does to you, Martin, to have the Dart win," said Merton dryly. "Motor Matt's deep, as you say, but don't make the mistake of crediting him with too much knowledge. He's only human, like the rest of us. From the way matters look now, we've got him and Lorry beaten, hands down. Motor Matt isn't sharp enough to steer those papers into my hands by way of Pete. Now, in all this betting of ours, the money is being placed with the understanding that if there is no race we take the cash; in other words, if the Yaharas back down and fail to send a boat to the starting line, we take the money."

"They won't back down," said Jimmie Hess. "Great Scott, Ollie, you don't think for a second that Lorry will back down, do you?"

"He may have to," was Merton's vague reply. "Anyhow, if you fellows make any bets outside of the pool, just make 'em in that way—that the stakes are yours if the Yaharas back down and there's no race."

"What's back of that, Ollie?" said Perry Jenkins. "You've got something up your sleeve, I know blamed well."

"And it's going to stay up my sleeve, so far as you fellows are concerned," returned Merton. "If I evolve a plan, I don't believe in advertising it. This Motor Matt may have steered those papers into our hands, and he may be deep enough to make the Sprite a better boat than the Dart while not knowing anything about the Dart, but I don't think so. However, I intend to be on the safe side. It means a whole lot to me to win—personally, and apart from my desire to see the Winnequas keep the De Lancey cup. Just how much it means"—and Merton winced—"you fellows are not going to know, any more than you're going to know what I've got at the back of my head for Sunday night. Put your trust in the commodore—that's all you've got to do. Open up some of that beer, Perry. I'm as dry as gunpowder's great-grandfather."

The glasses were filled again.

"To our success in the race," said Merton, lifting his glass and sweeping his keen eyes over the faces of his friends; "may the Dart win, by fair means"—he paused—"or otherwise."

Four or five peered at Merton distrustfully over their glasses; but, in the end, they drank the toast.

The success of the Dart meant dollars and cents to them; and money, for those eight plotters, stood for more than club honors and the De Lancey cup.